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“We are staying with you,” he says.

“I am not dying. I don’t feel anything! I am fine!”

“No,” Alcott says brightly, “but you may soon attempt to taste music.”

Lazarus groans. I look at my men and despite everything waiting for us in the library, despite the horror, and the coming war, another laugh escapes me. Perhaps it is panic or perhaps it is the biscuits, or it is the strange mercy of being surrounded by monsters who are, against all reason, terrified for me. The war can wait one more hour. Or two, apparently.

29. The Biscuits Were a Mistake - Lazarus

Nervous System

I have made several mistakes in my life. Some involved knives. Some involved women.

Several involved rooftops, whiskey, and an overconfidence in my ability to land gracefully. But leaving Olive unattended with a tin of special biscuits may rank among my greatest failures. She sits on the library floor with her back against Edward’s chest, wrapped in his arms as though she has personally decided to become part of his rib cage.

Edward looks terrified. Not of her, precisely, but of the situation. Of us. Possibly of the biscuits. Olive presses her cheek against his waistcoat and sighs. “I need to get closer.”

Edward’s eyes widen. “You are quite close.”

“No.” Her voice is soft and mournful, as though he has wounded her deeply. “Closer.”

Alcott, sprawled in the nearest armchair with one hand over his mouth, makes a strangled sound.

I point at him. “Do not laugh.”

“I am not.” He feigns innocence.

“You are vibrating,” I state.

“I am overcome.”

“With concern?” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes toward him.

“With delight,” he answers.

Edward glares at him. “Alcott.”

“What? She is adorable.”

Olive lifts her head from Edward’s chest and squints at Alcott. “I am not adorable.”

“No,” Alcott says solemnly. “Of course not.”

“I am terrifying,” she hisses out.

“Profoundly,” Alcott states.

“I have killed men.” She raises a finger in the air with triumph.

“Many.” Alcott replies, entertainment etched across his features.

“I am The Widow.”

“The most intimidating woman on the floor.” She considers Alcott’s words, then nods and burrows back into Edward’s chest. Edward’s expression softens before he can stop it. The poor bastard. He is trying so hard to remain stern, but Olive nuzzles him again, and something in his face simply gives up.

“I need to get closer,” she whispers.

Edward looks down at her. “Olive.”